The Whispers
by kittenxxkisses
Summary: A series of characters share whispers about different emotions and events, and they share their thoughts. oneshots/collection
1. Whispers of Love

**[A/N]** Hellooooooooooo! So this is a new series of One-Shots I am going to write, called _The Whispers_. It's just going to be a series of emotions and/or events that the characters happen to face. The first one is a rarely-thought-of couple that I thought I'd try my hand on.

Disclaimer: I don't OWN Harry Potter or any of his magical world. They belong to J.K. Rowling...who has heaps of stuff to continue writing...HURRY UP ROWLING!

Anyway, enjoy this little one-shot that came to me :)

* * *

Draco ran into the bathroom and pressed his hand against his sweaty forehead. This was it. He was finished. No matter the cost to him, he wouldn't do what the Dark Lord wanted.

Suddenly, he faded out and slipped into a vision that was becoming increasingly common. Old Insect-Eyes would love to see him make a prediction now, wouldn't she?

_The lock in the door clicked. Draco stared, transfixed, at the knob that was turning from the outside. He knew who it was going to be before the door opened. He was correct._

_The Dark Lord strode into the room as if it was his own. His cold red eyes fixed themselves upon Draco's mother and father._

"_Lucius, Narcissa," he acknowledged, his mouth curling into a taunting smile. "Your son has something to tell us."_

_Draco's knees buckled, and he fell to the floor. "I couldn't do it," he said in a weak voice, staring up into the shocked faces of his parents. His eyes were begging them to understand, to realise that it was too big a task for a mere sixteen-year-old._

_Lucius' face became a shallow sneer, but Draco could see the hurt and sadness behind his eyes. "I am not worthy of a son like that, Master," he said to the Dark Lord. Draco knew that the words were an act, but they sliced him all the same._

_The Dark Lord nodded approvingly. "And you, Narcissa?" He inclined his head towards her. Draco looked at his mother sadly. He knew that these confessions were all his fault, but he couldn't help it. _I'm sorry_ he mouthed to her. Her eyes flashed toward him for a split second, giving him the confirmation that he needed._

_She trembled under The Dark Lord's malicious gaze, but Narcissa's voice was firm. "I shall discard him as I did Sirius Black," she said confidently, but a single tear dripped from the corner of her eye._

_The Dark Lord didn't miss a thing. "Liar!" he shrieked, flourishing his wand unintentionally. An ornate flowerpot fell from an antique pedestal and crashed, causing them all to jump._

"_You are all not servants of mine. You are ruled by love of your son. _Love_." He accented his last word, making love sound like something dirty._

_Lucius looked scared. "Master!" he whimpered, clutching and grovelling at the Dark Lord's feet. Draco was disgusted. His father was an embarrassment to the Malfoy establishment._

_Narcissa, however, did not subject to the Dark Lord's will. She put her chin up proudly. Draco shivered. He knew what was to happen before it did._

"Avada Kedavra_!" shrieked the Dark Lord. Narcissa's empty shell of a body crumpled to the floor, but there was a triumphant smile plastered on her lifeless features._

"_Mother!" screamed Draco, and the same time that Lucius cried "Cissy!" Their eyes locked, and they realised what was about to happen._

"Avada Kedavra_!" A girlish giggle followed the scream._

Draco jolted out of his vision. A girlish giggle? He turned to face a transparent girl with black glasses, two neat black braids and a coy smile.

"You're cute when you're in agony," she said sweetly, then giggled again. Draco flicked around back to the mirror.

His usually pale face was translucent. There were dark purplish circles around his eyes. His face looked drawn and weary, and it glistened with sweat.

He growled at the ghost. What was her name? Morgan? No. Mary? No. Myrtle! Yes, that was it. Moaning Myrtle, the ghost of the girls' bathrooms.

"Leave me alone," he snarled, pressing a hand to his forehead. He felt very queasy, and he leaned against the sink.

"Take off your cloak, it'll make you feel better," suggested Moaning Myrtle. She was grinning, and Draco couldn't figure out why.

Draco shrugged his coat off, and it worked wonders. His uncontrollable sweating slowed, and he didn't feel stuffy and sick.

"Now your tie," continued Myrtle. Draco sighed but removed his tie. His breathing evened out and he no longer felt suffocated.

"Don't forget to unbutton your shirt!" trilled Myrtle, sounding very much like a little girl who was going to get Christmas early. His fingers undid the top two buttons of his shirt and stopped.

He realised what he was doing. He was stripping. In front of a ghost. A _female_ ghost. Myrtle's childish giggle floated out of an open cubicle, where she was sitting with her head resting in her hands.

"What a shame," she said, sighing. "I would have admired your chest." Draco looked horrified. He took a step back, and glared at her.

"Who do you think you –" He stopped and looked at her again. He was drinking in her features. Her beautiful, big, dark eyes that stared at him, doe-like. The cute button nose that was positioned perfectly in her wide, oval face. The plump, delicate lips that curved up to form a blinding smile of pearly teeth. And the lustrous sheen that she seemed to give off, even in the darkness.

Myrtle winked, and Draco blushed. His heart was hammering in his chest. Why? Why did it have to be that he fell in love with a ghost? Even after all those years snogging Pansy Parkinson, he had never had this sort of reaction. Damn it!

"You know, Draco," began Myrtle matter-of-factly, "you could drown yourself with the water here. We could spend an eternity here, playing pranks on the foolish students, not afraid of being separated by death."

Draco considered the option. It was a very tempting possibility. One that would also – coincidentally – get him out of his Death Eater duties.

He stopped thinking of an eternity of Myrtle. He jerked his gaze away from her. He thought of the brutal murders of his parents, which would be confirmed if he killed himself.

Myrtle floated closer, walking her ice-cold fingers up his arm. Even though they had no substance, Draco shivered in delight. "What do you say?" she asked seductively.

Draco bit his lip. He had two futures ahead of him, and both had very tempting options. Both were governed by love, but they were different loves. And he had to choose.

"Myrtle," he said slowly, savouring the way her name felt on his tongue. He called her lovingly and gently. "Myrtle, we can never be together."

Myrtle looked mock-hurt. "Why?" she asked playfully, smacking his arm. Draco treasured the bucket-of-ice feeling of her fingers. It felt like heaven on his clammy skin.

He smiled grimly. "Because of this," he said, pulling back the cloth covering his left forearm, exposing the skull and snake tattooed there. The Dark Mark.

Myrtle cocked her head to one side. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to the Dark Mark. "If you mean that I won't like you because of a tattoo, you are mistaken."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "It's the mark of the Dark Lord," he said gravely. Myrtle still didn't understand, and Draco felt himself getting angry. "VOLDEMORT!" he yelled. Dust fell from the stone walls and ceiling.

Myrtle sighed. "Draco, you must remember that I come from _after_ your time," she said patiently, resting a cool hand on Draco's forehead.

"But you must have heard of V-V-Voldem-mort," he stammered, his anger abating. With his anger gone, he found it quite nerve-racking to say the Dark Lord's name.

"Pray tell, who is this _Voldemort_ you speak of?" she asked jovially, a smile lighting her eyes up. Draco could not help but be mesmerised by her beauty. Then he recalled what she had said.

"_Don't_ say the name!" he hissed. She looked shocked, but stayed silent. Draco gathered that she was waiting for the story. Sighing in defeat, he began his retelling. Myrtle maintained her composure throughout.

When he had finished, though, she couldn't hold in her doubt any longer. She rounded on him. "This, this –" She groped for a word to use other than his name.

"The Dark Lord," spat Draco.

Myrtle readjusted her glasses, which had been slipping further down her nose. "So, you don't mean to say that this – Dark Lord or whatever – was really Riddle?" she asked. Draco nodded. "But he was such a model student!"

Draco nodded again. "Even the best of us have a Dark side. We can choose whether or not to follow it."

"It sounds like something from _Star Wars_," mused Myrtle. Seeing Draco's blank look, she grinned. "It's a muggle thing."

Draco looked taken aback. "You're a mudblood?" he spat out disdainfully, to cover up his disbelief. He had always been raised to think (and had always thought) that muggles and mudbloods were underneath him. Now he was being forced to reconsider what he thought. _Oh well_, he thought,_ better late than never_.

"Yes," sniffed Myrtle, looking on the verge of tears. Draco tried to pat her arm awkwardly.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, and he really meant it, with all his heart and soul. With a shock he realised that Myrtle had been killed by the Basilisk. He felt guilty but at the same time grateful, as if it wasn't for her, he wouldn't have been able to choose between what was right, and what was easy. He would find a way to make sure that his parents survived, and yet it wasn't _him_ who killed Dumbledore.

Seeing Draco's determined expression, Myrtle choked on a laugh. "What is it?" she asked playfully. "Have you decided to spend eternity with me?" She was playful, but her eyes were serious. She didn't dare to hope.

"No," said Draco plainly, and all traces of emotion vanished from the faces of them both. They were both trying to hide the turmoil of emotions within them. Hurt. Sadness. Anger. Confusion. Love.

"I'm going to live, Myrtle." Seeing her sad expression, Draco pressed on, although it hurt. "I'm going to save my family. I'm going to do what the Dark Lord has asked me to do. It may not be easy, but it feels right."

Myrtle's eyes flashed with anger. "Righter than loving me?" she snapped, her voice harsh and bitter. Draco flinched.

"No," he said gently. "There will be nothing in this world that feels more right than loving you, Myrtle. But I have to go…" His words trailed off and they stared into each others' eyes.

"Who knows, we may meet up again," he joked, a smile breaking out over his face again. Myrtle's face softened too, and Draco's smile grew wider. He thought she was prettiest when she was like this.

"I would like that," she said warmly, reaching out and stroking Draco's hair. "I love you, Draco," she declared boldly.

Draco smiled fondly. "I love you too, Myrtle." He reached out and gently stroked her cheekbone, and he watched her shiver with pleasure.

He turned to go, but her vice-like ice fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Wait," she breathed into his ear, and he turned.

He wasn't expecting what happened next. She leaned into his face, and she hesitated, an opaque blush spreading delicately across her cheeks. Then she closed her eyes determinedly, and pressed her lips to his.

Blood boiled beneath Draco's skin, and he moaned as he moved his lips in sync with hers. It was like dipping his lips in a bowl of snow, but it spread warmth throughout his body.

They both leaned away, breathing deeply. "I'll never forget you," they whispered together, and they turned to go in their opposite ways.

As Draco exited the bathroom, he heard a faint girlish giggle.

* * *

Draco stood on Platform 9 ¾ next to his wife and his son, Scorpius. As he watched the wind play with his wife's blonde hair, he had visions of another girl's hair.

He remembered Myrtle, and her icy-cold sheen. Her delicious looks tantalised him, and he realised that there was no-one on this earth – not even his wife, whom he loved with all his heart – that could compare to her.

As Scorpius boarded the train to Hogwarts, his chubby little hand waving out of the window, Draco imagined himself, forever captured as a ghost, on that train. Going to reunite with Myrtle, his long lost love.

The one with whom he had shared his first _Whispers of Love_

**[A/N]** Sooooooooo...What did you think? Did I portray the romance okay? I'm not so good with romance - having not experienced it first-hand - but I have a sense of it from reading books. I'm a nerd, okay. That's why I have no love life and exceptional grades.

Enough about me!

See ya soon, with another one-shot. The next one will be called _Whispers of Death_. Got any idea what it might be about?


	2. Whispers of Death

**[A/N]** Hullo! Here is Whispers of Death, the second one in the Whispers collection. Yes, I took a while. No, I'm not abandoning this story. I _never_ abandon stories :)

Disclaimer: I'm totally J.K Rowling. Seriously guys, do you even think that she would _need_ a FanFiction account to popularise her stories?

* * *

_Whispers of Death_

Albus Dumbledore bustled around his kitchen, merrily humming the Hogwarts school song. He loved Hogwarts. He felt as if it was his home, the place that he always ought to be.

He drew his wand and flourished it at the pot of liquid on the stove, which immediately began to bubble. A delicious aroma wafted out and he chuckled quietly to himself. He flicked it upwards and the faintly orange soup soared in an arc.

He slid a porcelain bowl with fluttering Snitches under the stream, just before it would have hit the ground and splattered everywhere. He clicked his tongue. His reflexes were slowing up, a couple years earlier he would have caught the soup far before.

He strode quickly to his favourite armchair. It was red velvet, and very tattered with patches of every colour. He sank into it, feeling very relaxed. He pointed his wand at the hearth, which immediately burst into crackling flames.

He spooned the French Onion soup into his mouth heartily. He was actually quite glad that he could cook, without having to give the job to a poor little house-elf. At least the Hogwarts house-elves were treated fairly.

Finishing the soup, he walked back to his kitchen and set the little bowl in his sink. He yawned as he saw the pile of dishes that sat in his sink. His eyelids fell droopily, and he knew he hadn't even the energy to maintain the simple spell needed to cleanse the dishes.

He slowly stepped up his spiralling staircase to his bedroom, thinking dreamily of the four-poster bed with red hangings that had spangled gold stars. He'd always been a fan of Gryffindor, as it had been his house at Hogwarts.

With a contented sigh, he changed into his pyjamas, and clambered into his comfortable bed. He rested his glasses and his pointed hat on his bed-side table, and closed his eyes.

A bright flash awoke him from his dreams. He opened his eyes and grasped his wand, directing it at the foot of his bed.

What he saw made him break out into a wide grin. It was a silver beast with four legs, a long snout, horns and large, leathery wings. It was a Patronus of a Hungarian Horntail, with smoke curling out of its muzzle.

"Albus," it croaked, in the wise, powerful voice of Nicholas Flamel, "I need you to be here, urgently." Dumbledore yawned, and the dragon's eyes narrowed. "Now!" It disappeared as if it was silver powder being blown away.

Dumbledore climbed out of bed and dressed in his robes again. He pulled his watch from his pocket. It was just after midnight. He grabbed his half-moon glasses and his signature pointy hat, and walked out of his house.

He wondered what any watching muggles would think of his eccentric clothes, or the awkward time that he was out. He had always been curious of the thoughts and ways of muggles – maybe not so much as Arthur Weasley – but definitely curious.

He removed his wand from his pocket and made sure that the street was deserted. He withdrew an object like a silver cigarette-lighter from his robes and clicked it once, twice, three times. All of the lights in the street plunged into his Deluminator.

He pocketed the Deluminator and gripped his wand tightly. He turned on the spot, and there was a loud CRACK. Then Albus Dumbledore disappeared from his street.

Dumbledore reappeared in a seemingly deserted street. He smoothed his windswept beard and readjusted his hat. It was very annoying how Apparating was like walking through a very forceful, blustery gale.

He whispered "_Lumos_" and the tip of wand – which was still situated firmly in his right hand – lit up. He waved it back and forth, trying to read the peeling golden numbers on the rusty letterboxes.

The number 45 glittered dimly under his wand light, and he strode purposefully toward the letterbox. He stopped in front of it, and bent down so he was eyelevel with it.

"Nicholas, it is I, Albus Dumbledore," he said to the letterbox. The golden numbers melted into streams, and they merged together to form a large golden circle. In the centre of a circle was a fierce-looking dragon.

"What is your favourite jam, Albus?" asked the dragon, but the voice was not snarls or growls. Rather, it was the commanding voice of Nicholas Flamel.

"Raspberry," answered Dumbledore with a twinkle in his eye. The dragon nodded, and the gold circle separated and formed the number 45 again. Dumbledore straightened up and chuckled quietly to himself.

The door of the boarded-up house creaked open of its own accord, and Dumbledore swept up the stone steps, and over the threshold.

As soon as he had stepped past the doorway, the door slammed behind him. He was not scared though, and soon enough, the lights flickered on.

They illuminated a cosy yet elegant living room, with a grand piano. The furniture was either beige or deep mahogany brown, and there were silver and gold accents splattered around the room.

A grey-haired couple stood arm-in-arm next to the fireplace. The woman had on a neat grey skirt suit, with a curly bob and simplistic pearl jewellery. The man wore floor-sweeping silver robes and a stiff wizard's hat. He had one arm around his wife, and the other extended in a gesture of welcome.

"Albus," he welcomed, "it has been long." He moved to sit down on the couch, and his wife followed. Dumbledore stood awkwardly, and Nicholas guffawed. "Dear me, Albus, where _are_ my manners? Please, sit down."

Dumbledore sat down opposite the couple, and he jerked his head at the both of them. "Nicholas, Perenelle."

Perenelle smiled, but Nicholas frowned. "Albus, what is the reason behind these formalities?" They caught each others' eyes, and the both of them relapsed into chuckles. Perenelle giggled quietly, more to be socially polite.

Dumbledore clasped Perenelle's hand and kissed it. "Perry, how have you been?" he asked casually. "Immortality suiting you both well?"

Nicholas' eyes twinkled as he said, "I shall miss immortality, I daresay I shall." Dumbledore looked confused, which was an expression that rarely crossed his face.

Nicholas and Perenelle smiled, and gestured the ruby red stone that was glowing subtly. It sat on the mantelpiece above the hearth. Two crystalline goblets accompanied it.

"We fear for the stone's safety, Albus," whispered Perenelle worriedly. "Lord Voldemort will soon discover that the stone is what he requires to regain a body."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes in thought. "What do you propose? Do you wish to hide the stone in Gringotts, my friends?"

Nicholas nodded. "At least until you negotiate the means for proper protection of the stone within Hogwarts."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "I assumed as much, Nicholas." Nicholas raised an eyebrow, wordlessly demanding Dumbledore to explain his graveness.

Dumbledore smiled inwardly, and explained. "Nicholas, I do not think it wise to hide the stone in a place that Lord Voldemort knows so thoroughly."

Nicholas grinned excitedly, and Dumbledore was reminded of an eager schoolboy. "But that's the essence of the plan, Dumbledore!" he practically squealed. Perenelle had an apologetic look on her face. "He won't _think_ to look in such an obvious place."

Dumbledore considered. He did not like the idea of harbouring the stone in such an open, accessible place. "What if the students find it, Nicholas?" asked Dumbledore, voicing a common concern.

Nicholas snorted and Perenelle rolled her eyes. "Albus, were you honestly going to just leave the stone out in the open?" he asked.

Dumbledore opened his mouth. He did not like being scolded like a child. "What if one of the older students found a way to break the enchantments guarding the stone?"

Nicholas rolled his eyes. "Albus, are you _trying_ to be difficult? We trust you to provide enough protection to keep the stone safe – from Lord Voldemort _and_ the students."

Dumbledore stroked his beard. He could do it, he knew he could, but he enjoyed teasing Nicholas too much. "Very well," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

He stood up to leave, but remembered a final thought. Rounding on Nicholas and Perenelle, he blurted, "But won't the absence of the Elixir of Life make you, to put it in blunt terms, _die_?" he asked, feeling much like a child as he did so. Often being around Nicholas, who was centuries older, brought about this feeling.

Nicholas smiled gently, wrapping an arm around Perenelle's shoulder. Only today did Dumbledore realise how ancient, fragile and worn they looked. "Ah Albus, you have not known life as long as we. It becomes a tedious thing now; we do grow tired of it." Nicholas fixed Dumbledore with a penetrating gaze, not unlike the one he used on his students.

Perenelle smoothed her silver curls back from her face, and placed her hands gently in Dumbledore's. "Do not mourn us, Albus. Our time here is done; we have already stayed far too long."

Dumbledore sighed and leaned against the wall. Nicholas and Perenelle were treating Death as merely a welcome reprieve from life, a holiday from which they would never return. He remembered a muggle quote, "Death must be amazing because no-one ever comes back from it." Looking at Nicholas and Perenelle, he realised how much they would have gone through, being immortal.

Nicholas clapped his free hand on Dumbledore's shoulder. A single tear dripped into his silver beard, and he wiped it away. Nicholas eyed him sympathetically. "Albus, do not weep. After all, to the well organised mind, death is but the next great adventure."

Dumbledore was shocked by Nicholas' phrasing and the jovial, appreciative way he said it. When Dumbledore pulled back, he saw that there was a twinkle in Nicholas' eye, and that they were both grinning hugely.

"I shall miss you as much as I shall miss immortality, Albus, but I cannot say I regret what I am about to do. It is for the greater good."

Nicholas' words stirred up something deep and dark in Dumbledore's long memory, but he shunted it to the side to deal with later. The clock on the table read 3:45am.

"Nicholas, Perenelle, I really must be going. If I delay any longer, my street will be too overcome with muggles to hide my Apparating." Nicholas nodded solemnly, and the two men exchanged a hearty hug before Dumbledore stepped out of the house, never to see his friend Nicholas alive again.

* * *

Dumbledore sat by Harry Potter's bed, relating Nicholas' words to him. As a single tear trailed down his nose and into the mess of hair that hung in a silver beard, he could not help but recall the twinkle in his eyes when he had spoken of this.

He remembered the positive, jovial _Whispers of Death_.

* * *

**[A/N]** It was kind of sad, I guess. But how did I portray their characters? Was Nick how you imagined him to be? Did I get the wise, merry attitude? I wanted him to be to Dumbledore as Dumbledore is to Harry, that kind of caring, older person whom the younger person respects. Maybe Dumbledore got the inspiration from Nicholas? It's up to you...

Next story is called _Whispers of Jealousy_. Anyone who guesses what this is about gets a free wand from Ollivander (I have connections, I _can_ get you a wand ;)


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